


Cufflinks and Ties

by Umbrella_ella



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: M/M, but that's what happens when you're shot in the face i guess, just some tumblr fills and various other little bits and bobs, some are AU, some of the are happy, some of them are sad, some warnings for canonical character death in some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-03-20 00:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3629838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr prompt fills, my own short stories, and some in-between stuff inspired by others, each chapter of this tells a different story. </p><p>Canon-typical violence may be described.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast for Two

**Author's Note:**

> Harry decides to make Eggsy breakfast.

Harry Hart is a consummate professional in everything he does. He is the perfect gentleman, the perfect man, and the perfect lover—Eggsy’s claim, not his own.

_A gentleman does not brag._

So, on Saturday morning, when Eggsy finds him on their kitchen floor (instead of nuzzled into Eggsy’s arms like his usually does on the weekends) face down on the lino and crying, Eggsy doesn’t know quite what to do.

It’s only been three months since Harry came back, and Eggsy is sickened when remembers Merlin’s words, in that Scottish brogue, soft, and clinical. _He won’t be the same, there’s no telling how he’ll be affected._

Harry’s a mess. Flour is streaked across his forehead, and egg yolk is running down his wrist from where his palm is resting in the yellow, murky stain on the floor, shells split into tiny bits that are very nearly impossible to see. His hair, usually combed in a neat style, with a few limp curls falling forward to cover the white, starburst scar that decorates his left temple, is a sloppy mess, and his pyjamas are mussed and wrinkled.

Eggsy, startled, drops his hand from his hair, jaw snapping shut mid-yawn. The slap of the kitchen tile under his bare feet echoes in the silence of the room, the white noise of the radio a deafening sound.

A burst of pain erupts in his knees when he drops to Harry’s side, gathering Harry’s head into his lap, carding his fingers through Harry’s beautiful locks.

Harry’s face is twisted into an etching of ungentleman-like emotion, and tears are streaking his red cheeks, his upper lip lifted into a sneer, bottom lip jutting out as sobs wrench themselves from a hoarse throat.

“Harry, babe, you alright?” Despite the knot of worry that’s bloomed low in his abdomen, settling like a stone, Eggsy works to keep his voice calm and steady, though he’s sure his fingers are trembling enough for Harry to know otherwise.

Between frustrated gasps that have Harry pulling Eggsy impossibly closer and angry sobs that send a fresh wave of tears streaking down to Harry’s chin, Harry says what he needs to.

“I wanted to make you breakfast. I can’t— I don’t know how, I can’t— I don’t remember, Eggsy. I don’t know…”

And Eggsy is crying then too, both of them a sobbing heap on the floor of the kitchen, the carton of eggs spilt and broken next to them, and Eggsy is sure that Harry will be upset that his favorite set of pyjamas have been ruined, later, when the two are washed up and clean and tucked into bed because _Who needs breakfast anyways, when I’ve got my ‘arry?_ but Eggsy will do his best to get another pair, and if they’re not exactly the same, Harry won’t complain.

After the egg yolk is sticky and mostly dry on Harry’s hands, and the flour is coating his cheek in a fine layer, Eggsy helps him up off the floor, dusts him off a bit and curls next to him in bed, watching from the fine comfort of his lover’s arms as the day passes by.

On Sunday morning, there’s a fresh carton of eggs on the counter and a new bag of flour in the pantry.

Early that morning, before the sun rises, Eggsy guides Harry’s hand, clutching shaky hands between firm fingers as the whisk whispers against the glass bowl, and it’s Eggsy whose laughter fills the room, and it’s Eggsy who dances to the jazzy tune on the radio, and it’s like this for the rest of his days.


	2. No One Needs to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: "May i request a hartwin no.47?" 
> 
> 47\. “No one needs to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for implied and discussed homophobia and mild swearing.

Eggsy sighs into the crook of Harry’s neck, inhaling the smell of sex and them, and suddenly he remembers what it was like with Harry above him, fingers tracing fiery paths over the valleys and mountains of knotted back muscles only minutes before. It’s sentimental, really, and he’d never tell anyone in a million years, but he misses Harry already, misses the feel of him just there, misses the feel of Harry losing control, but now, like this, well, it’s good too. 

Harry’s feet are tangled in the sheets, and Eggsy’s legs are tucked between his, but the older man does not seem to mind that his hair is dashingly disheveled and unkempt, he doesn’t mind that his shirt, once crisp and pressed is underneath Eggsy’s trousers somewhere on the floor, the heavy denim probably wrinkling the fabric. For once, Eggsy is glad Harry is here beneath him, heat rolling off of him in waves, calloused fingers wandering from freckle to freckle and mole to mole, tracing an endless map on Eggsy’s body that leaves goosebumps in their wake. Eggsy stills Harry’s movements, and with clammy palms, grips Harry’s weathered hands in his own, bringing them to his mouth. 

Harry swallows in the darkness, and Eggsy hears his throat click as he brings the first finger to his lips, tracing the callous with his lips. 

“I want to stay like this.” Eggsy’s voice is rough and craggy, the timbre low, and Eggsy wonders if Harry likes it.

Harry’s body is cool now, muscles unwinding, unspooling like threads in a box, and Eggsy burrows closer, shivering in the night. In their haste, neither of them had thought to pull the throw off of the bed first, and now are laying on it, both too comfortable and sated. 

Harry’s answering rumble of agreement is very nearly perfect, and Eggsy breathes him in again. He smells like Guinness, or maybe it’s him that does; Eggsy doesn’t mind it, and neither does Harry. 

Seconds that feel like hours pass by, and Eggsy watches the broken, jagged light of passing cars’ headlights decorate the bedroom walls, which are bare, save for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that adorn one wall entirely. Eggsy wonders then if Harry has any photos of his family, and he tires not to think about how little he knows about the man that lay so close to him now, naked and vulnerable, flesh pressed to sticky flesh.

“No one needs to know. About this, us. If you want,” Harry says, and Eggsy feels the vibration of his voice through his chest, and Eggsy thinks he can hear Harry’s heart pounding. Eggsy feels Harry’s shoulder tense, as though he’s posed and coiled, ready to run, and Eggsy bolts upright, like maybe he’s been burned, because, bloody fucking hell, that would hurt less than this. 

“Whaddya mean? That what you want? To pretend like this didn’t just ‘appen? Because I don’t make a habit of carrying on with people I don’t like.” Eggsy can barely force the words out, can barely say them for the fear of watching everything crumble in front of him. 

Too late for that, he reminds himself, even as Harry moves back, shrinking back from Eggsy like a child, a broken look on his face that reminds Eggsy of the time he broke mum’s favorite vase. He’s flustered, un-composed, and he looks panicked, hair wildly springing up as he sits up, hands folded in front of his face, like he’s praying, and .

“Kingsman is— it’s a dangerous place to… flaunt predilections. It’s… old-fashioned. A gentleman does not disclose information on his romantic attentions in a professional environment. Certainly not those that are… nontraditional.”

Eggsy calms, and reaches for Harry’s hand. Hands, once sure and firm, are now shaking and unsure. Squeezing, Eggsy tries to press some stillness, some surety, back into those hands. 

“Harry, do you— does Kingsman know that you’re—?”

“Gay? God, no. Merlin figured it out, but… no, they don’t. No one does, really, besides Merlin.”

Harry looks mortified, and even in the barely lit space of his bedroom, Eggsy watches as he goes even paler. His face drops forward into his hands, and Eggsy’s heart stutters at the sight. 

Eggsy moves to rest his chin on the cool skin of his lover’s shoulder. 

“’M sorry. I didn’t mean to get so upset. It’s just… the last time… the last time someone said that, I— ‘e dumped me, said the trouble my kind caused weren’t worth the great fuck. I get it, I was scared, it took me years to tell m’ mum, but if Dean knew— god, if Dean knew—“ Harry’s head lifts, and Eggsy halts, aware of the shadow darkening Harry’s soft features. 

“If he so much as touched you, if he so much as laid a finger on you for that, I swear to God, I’ll kill him,” Harry says it coolly, evenly and Eggsy marvels at how controlled Harry’s voice remains. 

“No, I mean, he knocked me about a lot, but no, I never told ‘im a fucking thing. You think ‘is boys were bad?” Eggsy raises his eyebrows, “Dean woulda been worse.”

Harry’s glower does not abate, and Eggsy leans in, taking the older man’s face in between his palms. 

“If you want to— we can go slow. It’ll just be us, love, you an’ me, babe.” Eggsy grins, and Harry smiles a bit, sadness dragging the corners of his lips down, and the smile doesn’t reach those beautiful eyes. 

On Monday, Harry leans in and kisses the jam from the corner of Eggsy’s mouth during a tea break in the mission briefing, and Roxy only smiles into her cup. Merlin simply hums, and some of the knights, the ones that Eggsy has yet to meet, nod in approval. 

Seems Kingsman isn’t as old-fashioned as Harry thinks. Eggsy smiles at the feel of a warm palm sliding onto his knee, and he meets Harry’s gaze over the table, a pink tinge flushing Harry’s cheeks.


	3. Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "kingsmanposts asked: eggsy won't leave harry's room. it's been weeks now since harry's death-- merlin & roxy are worried of their galahad, worried that they're going to lose another kingsman. meanwhile in harry's room, eggsy can't stop hugging harry's suit. he's in pain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissues might be good.

The suit still smells like him, like Scotch and good cologne and soap and Guinness and Eggsy presses his face into the soft cotton of Harry’s button down, thumbing the collar wistfully, wishing more than anything that it were Harry’s skin instead. 

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

“It wasn’t supposed t’ be like this, ‘Arry,” Eggsy is momentarily startled by his own voice, forgetting how much he had shouted and screamed and raged earlier, and he feels foolish, thinking of how he’d screamed at a dead man. Of course Harry wouldn’t have answered.

Everything was still as it had been before, the unfinished book laying on the nightstand, and through blurry vision, Eggsy can just make out the gold-leaf lettering, Lord Byron’s Collective Works, the maroon nightgown draped carefully over the bedpost, and the drapes, half-open and fluttering in the slight breeze that’s picked up in the late Autumn — Eggsy swears that if he closes his eyes and opens them again, he can see Harry standing there, hair loose and more relaxed than Eggsy’d ever seen him before, cream cardigan buttoned halfway and button down open at the throat. 

If it’s cold, Eggsy doesn’t notice. 

Instead, he sinks into darkness, despair twisting his memories of Harry into dark images, filled with the sound of a single heartbeat, and dream-Eggsy feels his chest, only to find that his own heart has stopped, and he’s lying alone on the hot asphalt in the Kentucky heat, his head aching before darkness consumes him once more. 

It’s then that Eggsy starts awake, and, with more clarity than he usually manages, leans up onto his forearms to find that his skin is a map of hair standing on end and gooseflesh. He’d fallen asleep in his pants and undershirt, and he rubs his face, the scratch of his beard against a soft palm the only sound in the quiet, still air of the London night. Padding to the French doors, because of course Harry’d have French fucking doors in his bedroom, Eggsy shuts them, bowing his head at the soft click of the latch. 

This time, when he looks outside, Harry is not there. He trudges back to the bed where Harry’s suit lay, rumpled and a bit wrinkled, and brushes his fingertips against the pink pocket square. It’s then that he sees it. 

The blood has crusted to a deep brown, a hue most might be unfamiliar with, but Eggsy had seen enough blood and stained enough clothes with it to know what blood on cloth looks like. It’s only a fleck or two, but it’s enough. Eggsy thumps to the ground, his knees giving way and knocking the bedside before meeting the floor and he shudders violently, sob wrenching from his body, forcing their way out like barbed wire, stuck between his clenched teeth, and he moves to get up, to stop, but he can’t, and even as his hands scrabble for purchase, he hears a distant— close?— crash of glass shattering and his stomach twists into a thousand knots as he cries. 

This grief, this pain, it expands around him, pressing the air from his lungs, and he can’t breathe and there’s nothing but an aching anger, a still rage that sends his heart racing and his nails, short and manicured, bite into his palms as he curls his hands into fists, wanting desperately to fight the pain the only way he knows how. 

At some point, he’s dragged the suit to the floor, pulled out the pocket square, and between great gasping sobs that are enough to burn him up from the inside out, he tries, God he tries, to thumb away the blood with his dulled thumbnail, brown, flaky patches coming off and my God it’s Harry’s blood on his hands now, sticking beneath his fingernails. 

Eggsy is sick on the floor then and there, and he can’t move, even between the stuttering gasps and the tears that flow messily to his chin, and the sour smell of vomit even though he’s barely eaten in days, and the blood under his nails is not coming off, even as shaky hands dig under his nails. 

In the end, when it’s over and when Eggsy’s practically laying in a puddle o his own sick, and the tears have dried to a salty residue on his face, and the blood still isn’t coming off and it’s all Eggsy can do but stare at the dark patches beneath his nails, his hand rests on his heart. 

This time, it’s his heart that beats in the silence, and this time, it’s Harry that’s dead. 

Eggsy looks over to the window panes and watches the stars pass by. 

Harry doesn’t come back— it’s not that kind of movie, after all.


	4. Rules are Dumb Anyways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Anonymous asked: i don't know if you're still taking prompts for hartwin, but eggsy works as a dry cleaner and harry's a regular customer, needless to say, the blood stains on his suits always makes eggsy curious but he doesn't like poking his nose in customer's business (he's also kind of attracted to harry) and then harry stopped going there for a while and eggsy misses him (but he won't admit to it). when he sees harry again he couldn't help but ask the question that's been bugging him for so long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluff! Yay!

Eggsy is pretty sure it’s against the rules to flirt with customers. 

Eggsy is also pretty sure the rules can take a fuckin’ hike. 

Dean’s Dryclean is the only place that serves the area near Saville Row, and Eggsy can’t help but marvel at the irony of that alone, but really, he’s too busy to even marvel. It’s hot in the back, so, despite the rules (again, the bloody, buggering rules), he works in his tank. It’s a hot summer in London, and the muggy heat is no friend of his when he’s stuck in the back, ironing and starching shirts for customers. It’s cooler out front, so when the bell on the door tinkles, announcing the arrival of a new customer, Eggsy thanks his lucky stars. 

When Eggsy comes out, he knocks over something, turns and stoops to pick it up, giving the customer a full view of his arse. Not that he means to, really, but if— bloody hell, Eggsy thinks as he turns around to spot the hottest bloke ever at the counter— the customer in question is hot, then it don’t hurt to have some fun. 

Eggsy fumbles with the iron in his hand, the very same he’d just picked up, and nearly drops it again. 

“’Ow can I help you today, erm, sir?” 

The man smiles a bit, the crow’s feet at the corner of rich, brown eyes crinkling the slightest bit, and Eggsy has to remember to close his mouth. The customer moves to adjust his glasses, think-framed, with thin fingers and Eggsy is struck by the thought of how much he wants to feel those fingers on his skin, and despite how cool it is— a fan is blasting directly at him— he flushes a deep red, and the man simply smiles again, leaning against the counter. 

“If you would, I’d like these done by tomorrow morning…” The man’s eyes flick down to Eggsy’s nametag, and he smiles once more, “Eggsy. I’ll be back at eight to pick them up,” A garment bag is held out, and Eggsy nods stupidly as he motions to take the bag from the gentleman. The lights above catch the barest hint of silver at his temples, dark hair neatly combed into submission, save for one stray lock that Eggsy has to remind himself not to touch. 

Instead, he feels the fabric of the garment bag crumple under his tightening fingers. 

“Of course, sir. Absolutely. Dean’s Dryclean, always on time! That’s us!” Eggsy smiles in a cheerful manner, internally wincing at how stupid he sounds, voice hitching high as he watches the man smooth his palms against his lapels, his charcoal grey three piece fitting beautifully, and Eggsy has a hard time keeping his mind focused on scribbling out a receipt for the man, pausing to look down at the paper.

“And, erm, who d’ I need ta give it to, sir?”

“Oh, Hart. Harry Hart.”

“Okay, Mr. Hart, total’s sixteen pounds exactly.”

Mr. Hart dips a hand into his blazer pocket and thumbs out a twenty pound note, remarking, “Keep the change.”

Eggsy makes a point to graze his forefinger against the man’s thumb when taking it. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Call me Harry, please.”

“Thank you, Harry.”

And with that, the man is gone. 

If it’s against the rules to fantasize about how the man said his name later that night, in the quiet of his room, hand down his pants, then fuck the rules. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry doesn’t return for two weeks, and Eggsy wonders if he’s some sort of spy, because it’s about as far-fetched a job as Eggsy can think of, and because there had been an unholy amount of blood spatter on his suit. It’d been a bloody wanker to get out those stains.

Besides, Eggsy’s had two whole weeks to imagine up a plot an’ everything. And adjust his wardrobe accordingly. Tighter shirts, fantastic, arse-hugging jeans. 

When the man steps in to the shop again, the bell tinkles once more, but Eggsy’s already up front, having seen the man from behind the counter. 

“Hello! I’m terribly sorry for the delay, but I was tied up. Business as usual, you know.” 

“Oh, hello,” Eggsy says, furrowing his brow as he pretended not to know who the man is.

The man fishes the ticket out of his pocket, holding it up triumphantly, smiling at Eggsy, “Ah, here we are! Mr. Hart. So sorry for the delay.”

“Ooooh,” Eggsy draws out his understanding, to emphasize the fact that he didn’t know who he was talking to earlier. Liar, he thinks. 

“I’ll be back, then, excuse me.” 

Eggsy’s sure that his face is redder than before, and he pokes his head out to look at Harry, who is currently taking in his surroundings, the picture frames on the wall, the racks of clothes that hang out in the customer waiting area, and the stupid t-shirts that read Dean’s Dryclean, On time, every time! in scrawled, loopy font, and Eggsy is suddenly embarrassed. 

Obviously this man is of a higher class than Eggsy, and with his upstanding, ramrod straight poise, his three piece suit, dark brown, tweed this time, Eggsy hasn’t got a fucking chance. 

After spending what seems to be an adequate amount of time to spend “looking” for an order dating two weeks back, Eggsy snatches up the suit, which is hung directly in front for exactly this purpose, and strides out to greet the man. 

“’Ere, your suit, Mr.— Harry.” Eggsy grins up at the gentleman, and his stomach somersaults when the older man smiles back, his spare hand running through his locks. 

Eggsy takes a breath. 

“So, erm, I was wonderin’, what is it you do exactly?”

The man laughs then, the rich baritone filling the shop in reply, and Eggsy is a little offended at that, and he doesn’t hide it. 

“Would you like to know?”

“Yeah.”

Harry stills, his hand on the counter, inches from Eggsy’s own, and Eggsy could touch their fingers, stretch just that much more, and then he’d feel those fingers, sure to be soft, beneath his own—

“Come to dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.”

Harry sweeps away, breezing out of the shop like he hadn’t just asked Eggsy out, and Eggsy is shocked. On the counter, his fingers twitch, and his middle finger sends a business card skittering almost to the edge. 

Picking it up, Eggsy reads, “Harry Hart, Kingsman Tailor Shop, Savile Row.” On the back, Harry’d written "Pick you up at six, when you close. Wait outside. Will bring suit."

Eggsy is pretty sure Harry Hart is not a tailor.


	5. Bakers Have More Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Everyone has things they do around base or at home to de-stress. What are they and how does Eggsy find out about them? (Bonus points if Harry's, should you choose to have him there/alive, is not just the drinking troupe). <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet! Like, really short.

Merlin knits. 

Apparently that’s a real thing. Roxy tells him once on a stakeout, and he is under the threat of death (which Eggsy doesn’t question because Rox is a scary person, spy training or no) should he reveal this to anyone. 

One Christmas, it is particularly dreary and cold, and the snow stops all inter-city travel, which means that the Kingsmen are stuck at the base. It’s not all bad, really, but it’s all Eggsy can do not to laugh at Roxy tucked into Merlin’s side as everyone opens their scarves and hats from a “secret St. Nick”. No one finds it prudent to mention that the same scrawl on the tags is the one that signs their evaluation forms. Merlin is straight-faced. 

Eggsy stays quiet. 

Harry, however, has a much more beneficial habit. In Eggsy’s eyes, anyhow. 

Harry bakes. And bakes. And bakes. 

When he walks through the door of the house, he rolls up his cuffs and bakes. Eggsy swears he’s getting fat, and Harry just chuckles and kisses the jam from his cheek, which often leads to more kissing, and more beneficial things. 

Harry does like to grab Eggsy’s arse now, and, if Eggsy notices, he won’t complain.


	6. The Tea Boy and the Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hartwin soulmate AU, please? Ooooh, wait wait wait, Alpha!Harry and Omega!Eggsy soulmate AU! Pretty please? :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone’s going to have to explain to me how A/B/O works and how to write it, because I have no idea what to write for that. Maybe someday someone can explain it. Until then, I hope you’re okay with a darker soulmate AU! Harry’s with Kingsman when he meets Eggsy, a civilian tea shop worker.

The words on his wrist are fuzzy, but then, he’s forgotten his glasses on the bedside table, and he’s in the shower besides. He doesn’t notice them until he lifts his arm to rub the shampoo from his hair, but they’re there.

Harry nearly slips when he gets out of the shower, squinting under the harsh fluorescent light of the hostel bathroom. The writing is crooked, rushed, like perhaps it’s just jotted down quickly as a note, but they’re there.

Scrambling for a towel, Harry tries his best not to get tangled in his shorts while he stares at the writing. It had appeared so suddenly that it seemed if he looked away, they might disappear just as quickly.

When he finally pushes his horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, he examines the writing.

_I’m sorry I ever met you, I’m sorry for all of it. I loved-_

Harry cries.

And carries that weight until he’s nearly fifty and meets a cute young man in a cute tea shop.

And then he forgets, only for a moment. He forgets that he’s a Kingsman, he forgets about the words on his arm that he keeps covered always because this young man is the world to him. Harry Hart could watch him laugh for days, could love him forever.

And he does, until Eggsy can’t take the lies, until Eggsy screams at him, and Harry screams back, and suddenly, there’s a crack like thunder that breaks the stillness around them, and then Eggsy’s body is cradled in Harry’s arms, face pale and eyes lifeless.

Harry sees the words, then, on Eggsy’s collarbone, the ones that Eggsy hides beneath concealer, the ones that Harry has never seen, and he wishes to God he could erase them, wash the tainted words away from pure, pale skin.

He stares at the black, thick ink on his dead lover’s skin, and he reads it again and again and again, until his heart is like a snarled pit of twisted emotion, aching every time he breathes.

_I never did love you. I am a damn good spy, and you’re just a distraction._


End file.
